


After all, I still lack a charm

by Narmie



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bar, Bartender - Freeform, M/M, idk what that is sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25341421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narmie/pseuds/Narmie
Summary: I come here far too many times. I’m not surprised my friends have enough of it. I would myself. More even, because all I do is staring at him and losing the sense of conversation. I just can't keep my eyes from wandering towards him. To get a glimpse. Just a flick. But my eyes have minds on their own and they stay longer, they always do because they can’t stop drinking him in.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 54
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

I’m at the bar. Again. It’s pathetic. That much is clear. I’m alone because none of my asshole friends wanted to keep me company. Or watch how I make a fool of myself as they phrased it. 

Whatever.

They can have their wrong opinion. 

I’m still nursing the first beer I’ve ordered. And I think that I should move onto something stronger. It’s not that I want to make any move today. I mean ... I would never. It’s just better. Having your mind a little fuzzy. I swear I don’t have a drinking problem. I’m addicted to something else. Someone else. 

I come here far too many times. I’m not surprised my friends have enough of it. I would myself. More even, because all I do is staring at him and losing the sense of conversation. I just can't keep my eyes from wandering towards him. To get a glimpse. Just a flick. But my eyes have minds on their own and they stay longer, they always do because they can’t stop drinking him in. 

I’m pathetic.

I think we have established that already. 

Or maybe not. Because you know I can’t even see myself asking him out. I can’t even sustain a conversation with him. Even though he is very talkative with the customers. I don’t know if it’s because people always treat bartenders as cheap substitutes of psychologists or he just simply likes talking. I’m sure I won’t even find out. 

He knows my name. One would think I introduced myself. Silly you. I would never. He knows, or more likely is aware that I, in fact, have a name, is because my friends said my name many times around him. Maybe by some magic force, it stuck in his head. Most probably he knows the names of all of us. But I like to fantasize that he is also curious about me. That he only has his eyes for me. And he likes me sitting there, nursing a beer for a very long time until its chillness fades and instead of the cold liquid sliding down my throat in the most delicious way, it’s just warm piss-like fluid that I swallow quickly to not let it linger on my taste buds in worry I might spit it out all over the counter. I like to imagine him shooting me side-cast glances, telling myself that he also wants to talk to me but is too shy. And when I’m hornier and in the safe coffin of my bedroom, I can imagine using his mouth in some more filthy ways than just talking. After the first time I did that I couldn’t even look him in the eyes. I could feel his eyes on me, I blushed furiously, blotches of pink tainting my cheeks like the paint splashed carelessly in the white canvas. But the shame and guilt didn’t stop me from thinking about him like this. My fantasies going even deeper. More filthy. More obscene with each time. And he was giving me even more wank material with every evening I spent at the pub. The way he bit his lip. Or how the muscles of his forearms flexed when he crosses them against his chest. Or his wide stance and those lean legs. 

Yeah, I am fucked. I knew it even before I started to toss off thinking about him. One of my favourite fantasies is starting with me approaching him after closing when he is still working to get the place clean and I move towards him like a predator with a clean intent seen in my eyes. And when he notices me, he just smiles, with this beautiful smile of his that just says  _ ‘fucking finally’  _ before kissing me senseless, until I don’t even know my name.

Pathetic.

Whatever

I can make my own wanking fantasies into romantic cliches. Thank you very much

I know his name. But I don’t say it at loud. Afraid that it might break the illusion I built, that it will simply feel strange rolling off of my tongue. I only let myself whisper it when I can’t hold it inside me. And it spills all over the air like a cruel spell. 

I’m sure he pities me this time. It’s Wednesday’s evening and I’m sitting here all alone, not even on my way to get wasted as quickly as possible because of that one beer I ordered a long time ago. I catch him giving my glances from time to time. His eyes puzzled. 

My heart leaps at his attention. Even though I know it won’t go anywhere yet it is making me all flush and excited. I'm a very weird creature. I think we’ve established that. I demand his attention, his focus on me and yet when I have it I won’t do anything about it, I won’t take it further. I’m unable to do so. 

I must sound like a stalker. Well, in all honesty, I think I am one. I’m watching him, I can’t take my eyes off of him. I’m sure no one is so tuned to him. To his smiles. To the wrinkles around his eyes. How his brow twitches when he has to be pleasant to some annoying client. How he plays around with that one woman that works with him sometimes, how they tease each other, shoot winks and playful smirks, sometimes even challenging one another. At first, I thought she was his girlfriend but then I saw her kissing the daylight out of some chic that came to the bar one day when it was very late and I was slouched on a barstool, barely listening to Chris - my very annoying coworker. 

I’m so lost in my own thoughts about him that I don’t even register that he is standing in front of me. Only when I lift up my eyes to find him again, I notice that he is there. Looking at me. A strange expression dancing around his irises.

“Another?” he asks and I lose myself in the baryton of his voice, how it moves through space to reach me and tickle all my nerve-endings. I nod. Not even registering his words properly. They aren’t important after all. The only thing that matters is his attention on  _ me _ . 

He gives me another bottle and I set aside the previous one, the warm beer still there. The bottle is cold in my hands and I tip it, perfectly chilled liquid sliding down my throat. I can feel my Adam apple bobbing when I swallow. I blush under his gaze fixed on me. The awful blotches of pink tinting my cheeks in such teenage manner I can only look at the bartop, embarrassed that I can’t even look at him.

I feel like this is my call to go, but I have just started the bottle and I’m sure if I would get up now he would ask what’s going on and then I would have to actually speak to him which is way worse than feeling silently embarrassed with myself. 

Thinking about just-opened bottle makes me realize that I haven’t paid him for it. I reach for my wallet, awkwardly shuffling on the barstool, that screeches lightly against the floor. I cringe internally. Being subtle was never my force. Least around him. I hand him some cash, not even thinking if that’s enough for one beer. He shakes his head and adds 

“On the house”

I can only nod and clumsily tuck the money back in one of my pockets. I don’t know why he is doing this. Why is he suddenly so close, looking at me with so many questions which he doesn’t ask. 

My hands are sweating even more and I feel hot all over. I can hear my heart beating painfully against my ribcage. Eerily, the only thing on my mind is the previous evening when I wanked and his name pushed through my lips. Just a whisper. Absorbed by small particles of air.

I’m even more uncomfortable. Squirming in my seat as if ants were running all over me. I take another big gulp and I almost choke on the liquid having too much in my mouth all at once. I’m just a second from making a total fool of myself. I should go. The sooner the better, but I don’t want to down the beer in one go, the possibility of suffocating with all the fluid too high to even think of trying.

He shuffles to the side, listens to the girl's order and doesn’t ask for ID. Pulls the glass from under the counter and mixes her drink. My breath finally eases. At least a bit. My hungry eyes follow his hands, mesmerized by how big and soft they look even in the dim light. He catches my gaze and I instantly look down, the awful crimson reappearing on my face yet again. How wonderful. 

He gives her the drink and collects the money. I can feel her linger close, trying to drag him back into the conversation, but he just moves, not giving her another glance. I flex and straighten my toes, feeling the socks scrape against the material of my shoes. This is pathetic. I should get going. And come back in a month. That should be enough time for him to completely forget this weird stranger sitting in his bar and stalking him. 

Though in all honesty, I like this bar. The atmosphere around is just calm and relaxing. And they have all these weird, craft beers I’m always afraid to try. In case I won’t like it and will have to suffer through drinking it. 

“You alone ?” he asks

“Huh?”

Of course, he has to ask an actual question. A one that requires actual answers and not just dismissive shrug, awkward nod or some furious hands gestures. No. I will have to use actual words to communicate. What a joy. 

“Yeah” I breath out and tip the bottle again, my throat dry like sandpaper. I occupy my hands by pulling the label from the bottle and tearing it apart. I can feel him watching me curiously. This is the first time we talked outside getting orders and it’s not even a conversation. Why I’m not even surprised I can’t even act like a normal person. Considering I’m not and I’m pants at pretending no surprises there, right. We’ve established some key points about my wonderful persona, haven’t we? 

“So why did your friends abandon you tonight?” he continues after some time and I risk a quick glance to look at him. He is standing to my left, leaning over the bar with his hip, his arms crossed. That's what this is about. Or he thinks I shouldn’t be left alone because I can do stupid  _ stupid _ things - which yeah granted but also fucking rude or he wants to know something about my friends, female friends in particular. Time ago I stopped pretending he might be gay. Or even bi. This sort of thing happens only in rom-coms, not in real life. Especially not in  _ my life _ .

“You should ask them” I respond bitterly and take another gulp because everything is better than looking at him now. He chuckles and I recognize this one. He thinks I’m being funny. I preen a little bit inside knowing I managed to amuse him. Just a bit. But I scoff at myself for being so shallow and so stupid. More probably he is just entertaining me to get the information. 

“But I’m asking you,” he says, low and throaty, leaning forward until his forearms rest on the bartop. His eyes are burning into mine. I swallow. 

I’m totally fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might also not make sense.  
> As the whole story  
> Leave a comment if you have something to say. And who you see as the narrator of this story

I am not prepared to be the one pressing him against the wall. And ravishing him in the way I always wanted but never dared. His tongue is moving against mine sinfully, tantalizingly beckoning me closer, even when there is no space between us. His hands on my ass urging me on. And I’m so hard, I can’t even think of what I’m doing. I hear him moan when I close my lips around the soft flesh of his throat and suck hard to leave a purple bruise there. Something he won’t be able to mask or hide. Something that will be there. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. 

I bent my head down further, licking his jutting collarbones. And I want to feel more of his naked skin against my tongue. Underneath my fingertips. But I have lost the ability to form coherent sentences right when he looked at me with his full of lust eyes. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, making me slot my leg between his, pressing my knee against the bulge in his pants. Delighting in a way he gasps and clutches tighter to me, his fingers on my back curling around the material of my shirt. I claim his mouth again, pulling at his bottom lip, before pressing my tongue inside, licking the inside of his mouth. I could stay here forever, pressing him into the wall, trying to melt into him, kissing him senseless. But he is urging me on. Wanting more. Grinding harder. Pressing firmer. I have no power to stop him. Or even to try. He is rubbing his cheek against mine, humping my leg, arching his back in a beautiful arc. And I can’t help myself. I’ve fantasized about this too many times to let the opportunity pass. I sink to my knees, pressing my mouth to the bulge instantly, I hear him hissing, his breath hitching. I smile to myself. I lick his cock through the fabric, his musky scent filling my nostrils.

“Can I?” I finally ask, looking up at him, noticing his flushed cheeks and parted, kissed-swollen lips, his lower lashes painting shadows on his skin. He nods and it’s all I need because in the next second my fingers are opening his belt-buckle and sliding his trousers down to his ankles. I look mesmerized at his half-hard cock hidden behind the black fabric of his boxers, swallowing past the lump in my throat, getting slightly nervous. I pull his boxers down, finally, eyeing his cock with hungry eyes. The head already a darker shade of pink than the rest of the shaft, slightly filling out under my gaze. My mouth waters seeing his pierced slit. I can’t help the shiver going down my spine at the idea of having it pressing against my throat or simply swirling my tongue around it. I look at him again through my eyelashes, noticing his smug smile painting his face, causing wrinkles around his eyes. I slip my tongue out, letting it rest on my lower lip for a short breath, my mouth parted before I hesitantly lean forward, placing a shy, bashful lick against the head, the hoop cold against my tongue. I suck at the crown like it’s a lollipop and then I swallow him deeper, feeling how it moves inside my mouth. He moves his hands into my hair, his blunt fingernails scraping against my scalp, fingers carding through my hair. It happens to be the only indication that I need, before diving right into it with all the boldness I can muster. I’m not good at deep-throating so I pull off when I’m almost choking.

I can only wish I’m doing good at sucking his cock, not having much experience in that particular matter, being on the other end most times. But I like how his cock fills my mouth, how the head once in a while hits my throat, how the hoop drags along the inside of my mouth, just on the edge of being painful. His head leans backwards, resting against the wall, his hands in my hair, pulling me in and out, working my mouth over his cocks and I can only take and take and take. And it’s the most exquisite feeling. Even when I choke a bit on the more purposeful thrust, or when the saliva runs out of the corner of my mouth, even when it gets more sloppy and imperfect. I love it. Every fucking second of it. 

I can feel him getting closer, his hips moving back and forth erratically, almost uncoordinated. His fingers pushing more purposefully, digging into my scalp, scratching it. He chokes on a moan when I swirl my tongue around the head, playing with the hoop, putting a bit of pressure there. My jaw is aching, my cock rock hard and trapped in my jeans, yet I just want him to come, to finally taste him, to see how he comes undone because of me, how he shatters with the release. I open my eyes, peering at him wanting to witness every damn second of it. And when his gaze meets mine, he swears, breathlessly, a sound thorn out of his throat. He pumps once, twice and then his hips stutter and I feel his come hitting my tongue when I try to swallow it all. 

He leans back, his cock softening inside my mouth to the point it almost slips out. His hands still in my head, scratching absently, and I almost purr at that touch. I don’t even care much about the fact that I’m still hard, that my cock is aching for friction. Anything to ease that tension. Because I feel blissful on my knees for him, the residual taste of his come still on my tongue, his blunt fingers scraping lightly against my skin. But then he tugs my upwards, his mouth finding mine within seconds, he claims it with fervour and ferocity even when I’m not fully standing. His tongue slips inside, and I moan unabashedly. There is no shame left in me, and I don’t even think about all those weeks of looking at him discreetly, of wanting him but being unable to say anything, to act on it. All those nights I spent fantasizing about him. Because none of this is important when his deft fingers undo my jeans and his hand sneaks his way inside, wrapping around my shaft, my hips bucking forward involuntarily. And he keeps on kissing me and kissing me and kissing me. There is no finesse to his movements, only one purpose. It’s hard and fast and so blissfully perfect, his hand around my cock, his tongue inside my mouth, his  _ everything _ all around me, that it takes no time for me to come. I shoot into his hand, painting his abdomen with white stripes, leaning over him when my whole body just melts, being reduced to liquid.

I hide my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, still in that euphoric phase, endorphins bursting through my veins. I grunt, feeling my joints crack and he chuckles.

And I know that I’m utterly, completely, stupidly fucked. 

But again no surprises there right?!

/-/

You would think that from there it would go easy, like spreading a soft butter thickly over perfectly done toast. Then you haven’t met me. I really don’t know what happened, how I ended up on my knees in front of him - oh well,  _ that _ I know how - but I’m clueless with how it started. I mean, ‘we been knew’ I’m not myself around him to the point I have no idea what is going on around me. So I guess no surprises there that I just completely lost the plot. But I’m getting a bit stray from the path with this. The thing is when it could be easier for so many after that  _ ekhm _ cocksucking, the same story couldn’t be applied to me. And what did I do? I stopped coming to the bar. Because let me tell you. One thing is to daydream of the taste of his come while looking at him, remembering when it was like to have an orgasm ripped out of you with his face behind your eyelids and his name on your lips. And totally different to just sit there looking pathetic with big lovey-dovey eyes  _ after _ sucking his cock. I’m not bashing anyone, really. I mean I would do it again, no questions asked. But you know, he’s dropped dead gorgeous and I’m … me. 

It is hard to not see him every day. As hard as it was to watch him knowing nothing would ever happen. It is odd to have this strong (one-sided) connection, especially since we don’t know each other. Since I don’t know much about  _ him _ . And yet I can simply crave his attention on me while still being unable to move past my own insecurities. 

The story of my life, I would say. 

But I can’t make myself do it. To just go there. First, it was the fear of being let down or simply ignored. And then, to appear once again after so many days of  _ not _ being there (when he was aware I was there a lot) and let him wonder about it, and dislike me because of it. I’m not sure. At the time it all made sense in my head. From time to time. Not always. Things rarely make sense in my head, just so we are clear.

But today - well today is the first night I will be there since the ‘ _ accident _ ’. Not because my own willingness, mind you. I was forced to come by my asshole friends after I bailed them so many times they kept asking questions. And you know, in none world I could tell them the truth, they wouldn’t believe me. But, back to the point. I’m here. Standing in front of the door like a loser, not quite certain it’s a good idea, but not having any passable excuse to use. I can only hope that he won’t notice me, because it’s a Thursday night meaning a lot of people ready to get drunk and he will have to help them with that. I count on that since I have no other hopes. Nor have I any stupid explanations prepared.

The first half an hour I’m on edge, sitting on the needles and ready to bail at any second. But of course the longer I sit there, the more beer I drink, the more at ease I feel. And the more unexpected his sudden presence is. 

And then his eyes are on me. Burning into me and I can’t even swallow past the tight knot in my throat. 

So I do the only reasonable thing that pops in my mind. 

I run 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I want to say is a big, massive, fucking huge thank you to 6 for making this look polished and almost perfect, giving my ideas how to make it better than it was, as well as the thumbs-up that it works with the previous chapters well.

Many times I've heard that I can be quite a dramatic bitch. And you know, there’s no point in denying the truth. I can certainly be a handful. 

So when I say that I run I mean that I moved quickly past him to the fucking bathroom. Not like running away as if some zombies were chasing me. Honestly, I can’t even tell why I thought it might be a good idea. A bathroom in a pub?! In the evening?! I don’t even know why I stopped in surprise at the people waiting in line. Because everyone wants to pee after a couple of beers or drinks. But I guess we can chalk it up to me never thinking clearly around him. And not having the brightest ideas. Even though I try to think about myself as an intelligent person.Not the brightest crayon in the box, but you know what I mean. 

I lean against the bricked wall, pushing my hips forward. I need to find some good excuse for why I left so abruptly. At the same time, I don’t even want to go back there. All the staring and unsaid accusations make me twitchy. Squirming. I don’t like attention. Or at least you know _this_ sort of attention. 

Some pissed girl asks me rudely if I will finally move and go inside or whether I need a fucking invitation to get my dick out to pee. Her wording, not mine. I look at her, lifting up my eyebrows. She huffs. Annoyed. Gotta love drunk people in public places. I move past all the crowd, trying to think, knowing that a few minutes spent in the bathroom would be a good time-delayer but alas I lost my chance on that. I scan the space, watching as my friends talk animatedly among themselves. I try to find _him_ but the place is crowded and perhaps that’s better. Maybe I should just apologize, say I don’t feel well and get out of here before it turns to hell. I make a beeline to our table, trying to avoid as many people as possible that are blocking the way. I hit some dude’s shoulder, my body shifting left. I give the guy my coolest glare, but he doesn’t even look at me. Already engrossed in the conversation with his friends. Before I can even get irritated by his pesky behaviour, someone snatches my wrist, taking a tight hold over it and dragging me back. 

The most unsurprising thing about it is that I don’t even have to think about who it is. Because I know it’s _him_. And I’m not even sure why for a second I entertained the idea that he will leave me alone. I trail after him, my mind blank when I try to think about anything to say. Everything just seems feeble. I mean I’m not even shocked since we are speaking about me. In his vicinity on top of that. 

I don’t even think about all the dark things he could do to me. Like, punch me in the face. It’s weird that my mind doesn’t go to the worst-case scenarios as per usual. It’s strange and a bit alarming that I can allow him to pull me wherever he wants. And I’m willing to go. Even though I’m not sure I could say that to him. That I bailed on him because he is from another league and I’m still me. Pathetic. Again, we are speaking about me so I guess, not shocking. He pulls me into a dark corridor, pushing me against the wall. The chatter of people fading away into the background, a distant, unimportant noise. I’m lost again in the depth of his eyes, my knees already weak from the intensity of his gaze. And like the last time I’m ready to fall to my knees and worship his cock like there’s no tomorrow. It’s like an electrical field around us, the electrifying charge transfer between our bodies, the pull almost like magnets. And then before I even know it, our lips move against each other and I zero in on the softness of his lips, still a little chapped. My hands, acting on their own, sneak under his shirt, palms resting over his warm, smooth skin, right above his hip bones, pulling him firmer against my body, fingers gently scraping flesh. His tongue swirls over the seam of my lips, before pushing inside, licking inside my mouth, making me groan, making my cock grow harder in my jeans. He undulates his hips and I match his rhythm, seeking friction, something to move against, thrilled that just around the corner there is a pub full of people and that anyone could spot us. It makes my blood pump harder, my hips move firmer, my fingertips dig rougher. He matches my intensity, a push for push, a lick for lick, a bite for bite. His hands on my ass, pulling my cheeks apart through the denim. I can feel my hole twitching. Anticipating. Wanting. My cock already throbbing inside the cruel confines of my jeans.

And then he stops. 

Pulls back.

And I go after him, my mouth seeking his. Because I can’t stop kissing him. He pushes me back firmer, my eyes snapping open, the spit connecting our lips breaking with the distance and gravity. His eyes are hooded, his breath heavy, lips red and swollen. And I only want to ruin him more.

“Wait,” he finally pants, then whispers “Stay” against my parted lips. He disappears after giving me one, last, close-mouthed kiss.

I’m not sure why he still isn’t aware I would do anything he says. 

Closing my eyes, I wait for him. 

_/-/_

Devour. The only word fitting to describe what I’m trying to achieve. I kiss, and I lick, and I bite. At every fraction of his skin. At every hollow. Every cavity. Every ridge. Every crest. I can feel him shivering under my ministrations. My tongue licking the gooseflesh rising on his inner thigh. I mouth at his cock. Red and hard. Pre-come leaking from the head, before I suck it, his taste invading my tongue, the velvety flesh poking the insides of my cheek. His breath hitches and he groans loudly when I hollow my cheeks, sucking him firmer. One hand moving up and down his thigh, caressing.

I keep on sucking him, not as firmly and relentlessly as before when I push one slick finger to the first knuckle inside him. I almost lose his content sigh, for all the blood pounding in my ears. I’m not good at waiting. And honestly - no one would be able to hold off for long having him spread and wanting, his skin flushed, red blotches colouring his cheeks, his body shivering. I thrust two fingers in, scissoring them, opening him up impatiently. The pads of my fingers stroking against his prostate, swallowing down every high-pitched keening noise that leaves him. Wanting to hear them forever.

Before I know, I’m three fingers in, thrusting in and out and he is fucking himself on them, matching my force. His cock is lying hard and heavy against his belly, pre-come smeared on his skin, creating lines of pearlescent colour. 

He whines when I pull my fingers out and I shush him, placing a soft reassuring kiss on his lips. I look at him, his eyes glazed, almost lost, and love the way he already looks ruined. 

And I only want to wreck him more. 

The choked off moan followed by a whimper that leaves his mouth is a perfect description of how it feels when I pushed inside him for the first time. His warmth engulfing my cock, when I move deeper. Inch by inch. I try not to hurry, keeping my hastiness at bay, wanting to prolong the moment since I finally have him right when I wanted from the start. Spread beneath me and craving.

I stop for a second, catching my breath when my balls rest against his ass. I plant small kisses all over his face, feeling his hands gripping my hips, almost urging me on. I flick my nose on the underside of his jawline, my tongue catching the droplet of sweat over the expanse of his throat.

“Move” he commands hoarsely and I smile smugly down at him, before moving my hips leisurely. Dragging my cock out of him with excruciating slowness, letting him feel it, letting him clench around it. I stop when I’m almost all the way out, only the tip inside, his hole tightening on nothing, trying to suck me in. I thumb the head of his cock, fingernails scraping over the piercing, drinking in the swears he huffs, how his eyes are locked with mine, when I sink inside him again and he breathes, relieved, on edge still. 

I nose at his jawline when his hands grasp my asscheeks. Demanding. Urging. 

“Fuck me” he breathes “Fuck me like you mean it”

And my hips snap. Thrusting in and out with force and abandon, with a single desire to watch him lose it and come undone underneath me. 

At the next forceful push, I bite softly at the skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and he keens, his eyes flying open and dragging me down for a bruising kiss. And I know I won’t be able to move from that. The way his hands move over my sides, the way his lips latch on my skin, sucking to leaves marks. The way his thighs start quivering when I can sense him getting close, his balls tightening, heavy, warm and full of seed. And I won’t ever get enough of it.

When he comes is a sight to behold. White spurts of come shooting from his cock, painting his abdomen, even hitting his chin. He is all flushed, cheeks tainted with red blotches, sweat covering his skin in a light layer that I want to lick off him. 

“Beautiful” I whisper with reverence, leaning down and kissing him, nipping at his bottom lip. Feeling his hole clenching around my cock, when he rides his orgasm, sending shivers down my spine, reminding me that I’m still hard. That I’m still _inside_ him. 

It doesn’t take long for me to reach the tipping point. Having him underneath me, encouraging me, digging his nails in my flesh, seeing his come slowly drying on his belly. A couple of thrusts and I come whimpering, before collapsing on top of him, resting my head in the curve of his neck, breathing him in.

_/-/_

I don’t expect anything. Considering I’m … well _me_ , I know better than to expect things. It’s better to have low expectations than to disappoint yourself with big ones. So when I roll over, the morning sun sneaking through curtains, spreading over my bare leg, warming the skin, I don’t expect him to smile at me sleepily. I don’t expect him to huff a ‘good morning’ before leaning over and kissing me chastely, not caring for the morning breath. I don’t expect him to slowly rub against me, getting me hard and needy, before pulling back and informing me that we should get up and fetch some breakfast. I don’t expect him to lean down to kiss me again, his tongue hot and insistent in my mouth, before he slides away, flashing his bare ass to me. I don’t expect him to push me against the couch, much much later, and spread me open when the tv goes on and the female presenter speaks about today’s weather. I don’t expect him to fuck me, _ooh so slowly_ , with my knees around my shoulders and my lips already swollen from all the little nips, bites and kisses. And I obviously don’t expect him to whisper to me ‘stay’ after he came inside me and collapsed all over me, his ragged breath tickling my earlobe when he said it. I don’t expect him to do any of this, but he does.

So perhaps I’m not such a lost cause?

We will find out I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that a lot were wondering who is who in this story and I think that's the beauty of it - you can choose who you see as the narrator and bartender.  
> So, thank you for following this one and maybe we will meet again with the next story.

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes are my own. Please be gentle.


End file.
